


Death is Only the Beginning

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - The Mummy Fusion, Demon Kylo Ren, Egypt, Egyptology, F/M, Historical, Horror, Mummies, Reincarnation, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: There are many who have attempted to make the journey to Hamunaptra, and many men have spilt their blood in pursuit of its territory. Only a few have made it back. Rey, an orphan girl and skilled mechanic, is one. It is her who Ben Solo, librarian at Cairo’s Museum of Antiquities, seeks out. It is a wildcat named Rey that he finds, locked behind bars and destined for the hanging rope. In return for saving her life, Ben requests Rey's assistance in getting him to Hamunaptra.But an evil waits for them in Hamunaptra, and when it focuses its evil on Rey, it turns out it will take a lot more than bullets to stop it, and the key to its defeat might just lie with Ben...





	1. Imhotep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmberDread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberDread/gifts).

* * *

_Cairo, Egypt_

_A street market, 1902_

“Thebes. City of the Living. Crown jewel of Pharaoh Seti the First. Home of Imhotep, High Priest of Osiris, Keeper of the Dead. Birthplace of Anck-su-namun, Pharaoh's Mistress. No other man was allowed to touch her. But for their love, they were willing to risk life itself.”

The storyteller smiled, sitting in front of his tent in the marketplace. Wrinkles lined his mouth and his face. He cradled a cup of tea in his hands. The tea was unlike the thin water drunk by the English. He had tasted that in his time, and disliked it, yearning for the fragrant richness of his homeland. His beard tickled his nostrils as he laughed heartily. He sipped from his china cup. That was the only thing he had brought back from England.

His silvery eyes twinkled. “Does this story amuse you, child?”

The black-haired boy before him nodded. He couldn’t be any more than six, a pale-skinned tourist with the beginnings of sunburn on his cheeks.

The storyteller held out his hand. The black-haired boy eagerly shoved a coin into his palm.

He bowed his head. “My thanks to you, child.”

“Imhotep,” the child demanded. “What happened?”

“The smallest of things lead to the greatest of tragedies. For it was a single mark, on Anck-su-namun’s wrist, right here, where I point – that Seti noticed. She had been touched. If she had been touched, then her heart belonged to another. Seti called for his guards, but Imhotep and Anck-su-namun were too quick. Seti was dead before the first guard arrived. Ushered away by his priests, Imhotep could only watch as his love was killed by Seti’s vengeful guards. So it was that the two lovers were separated. But,” added the storyteller, holding up a finger, giving a sly smile, “Imhotep was not going to let death separate them for long.”

Reaching behind him, the storyteller picked up five jars. Each one, their stone pale, carried the head of his gods.

“Anck-su-namun’s body had been mummified, her organs placed in five sacred canopic jars, much like these.” The storyteller gestured to the boy. “Go, pick one.”

His smile became a grin as the black-haired boy glared studiously at the five jars. He pointed to the one carved into the shape of a dark jackal.

“Ah, yes… the god Anubis. His weighing scales determine whether a soul enters the realm of the dead. Imhotep would not allow such a decision to be made for Anck-su-namun. With the Book of the Dead, found only in the heart of Hamunaptra, he would bring her back before any claim could be made on her soul. For with her dying words, Anck-su-namun had prayed for her lover to accomplish such a feat.”

The storyteller paused. “The gods had other plans. Before the ritual could be completed, Seti’s guards, following Imhotep, captured him and his priests. The priests were condemned to be mummified alive. Imhotep himself was to endure the Hom-Dai.”

“The Hom-Dai?” The black-haired boy was enraptured.

“The worst of all ancient curses. Never before bestowed. It—”

“Ben?” The call broke through the hubbub of the crowd. The black-haired boy started as if cursing himself for forgetting the time. He scrambled to his feet. The storyteller smiled and took another sip of his tea.

The black-haired boy returned not a moment later, flinging himself down in front of the storyteller. His eyes were as wide as the cup’s saucer.

“What happened? How does it end?” the boy urged. The storyteller shrugged.

“There is no end. One who endures such a terrible curse is not meant to surrender to its power. No. Some say Imhotep still lives. Underneath the sands of the City of the Dead, he lies in wait. It is up to the Medjai, descendants of Seti’s guards, to protect the world from his evil. For if released, he would be a walking disease… a plague upon mankind. No-one would outrun him.”

The black-haired boy frowned, but there was a curiosity in his expression. He leaned closer to the storyteller.

“Ben!” A second call this time, from the same voice.

“Are you one of them? The Medjai?”

The storyteller chuckled. Idly, his rough-skinned fingers brushed over the intricate ink that covered his cheeks. He gestured to the quickly approaching figure. The woman, dressed in white, beckoned. A wide-brimmed hat shaded her eyes. Her brown hair was curved around her neck in a long plait.

“Ben, come here,” said the woman firmly. The black-haired boy sighed. He wandered towards his mother. She picked him up, cuddling him close. Listening to their fading conversation, the storyteller held the boy’s coin tucked between his finger and thumb.

Slipping it into his robes, he continued to drink his tea, his silver eyes mist among the bustling crowds. Beyond the city walls, the distant desert winds whispered across the golden sands. The end, it was clear, was yet to be told.

History awaited.


	2. "Get me out of here!"

_Cairo, Egypt_

_Museum of Antiquities, 1926_

Ben ran his hand through his hair, staring at the chaos around him. In his hand, he still held the culprit of it: a biography telling the days of Tuthmosis III. The library door burst open. He looked up. He immediately sighed.

“What on _Earth_—”

Just what he needed.

“You think I’m happy about it?” he snapped. He kicked at the scattered papers. “Three years! Three years it took for me to get your mess into a serviceable order—”

“Ben, I warn you,” Luke said, grave, “I worked with this library for decades before I took you on. I can easily go back to the way it was.”

“Really?” Ben asked. His upper lip curled into a nasty grin. “I’m the only person within hundreds of miles who knows how to put this place back in order.”

Luke was unmoved. “How long did it take the Bembridge scholars to reject your application this time?”

He stormed towards his uncle. Books went skittering across the floor, bumping into fallen bookshelves. Papers crumpled underneath his footsteps.

Luke held up a finger, stopping Ben in his path. His stare shifted into a frown while Ben glared with his fists clenched. All at once, then, Luke’s frown turned into a sigh. He ran his hand over his straggled beard. He shook his head.

“God rest your father’s soul, Ben.” He gestured to the fallen bookshelves and books. “Just fix it. I don’t care how long it takes. In the meantime, I’ll be in my study... writing to your mother.”

Luke’s black gown billowed out behind him as he turned on his heel and strode from the library. Facing the bookshelves, Ben tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket and rolled up his sleeves. He approached the first bookshelf that had fallen. The tip of his boot nudged a heavy volume. Picking it up, he glanced over the golden letters.

A treatise of Seti I, analysing his reign, which had been eternal compared to his father’s, who was nothing more than a smudge on history.

Ben set it to one side. All the other books were trapped underneath the shelf. So, it was the heavy lifting first, then the academia.

He could’ve compared the mess to an archaeological dig, but he wasn’t _experienced_ enough, according to Bembridge, to make that comparison.

“I know you’re a stubborn asshole,” said a voice above him, “but lifting a whole bookshelf by yourself?”

Ben looked up.

Poe was an almost tolerable presence. Taken in, just as Ben had been, by Luke into the shelter of the Museum of Antiquities. Like the two of them were strays found in the cold desert night, or relics dug up from the sand.

“Fine.”

Poe took the weight of the other side of the bookshelf and balancing the weight between them, they strained and cursed as they righted the bookshelf. What books that remained on the shelves, tottered and crashed onto the floor. Ben sighed. Kneeling, he got to work.

“Want some help?”

“Do you know how they’re ordered?”

“Nope.”

“Then no.”

There was silence for a time as Ben worked, sliding the heavy volumes into their rightful places on the bottom shelves. Before him, Poe crouched down.

Ben paused, turning his head towards his colleague.

“What?”

“What would you say if I said I’d got something?”

“Waste of time. You know my uncle isn’t enamoured with staff finds. It’s always some ignorant book clerk who’s found a bit of junk in the desert and convinced themselves it belonged to Rameses II—”

“I’m not a clerk, I’m a cartographer,” Poe said, with a pointed raise of his brow. “I know what I’m talking about. _Cacafuego_.”

From his trouser pocket, Poe brought out a small hexagonal box. Ben stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened.

“Where did you get that?”

“Found it in the market. The guy was trying to sell it for a pittance. When I saw what it was… I just about gave him a month of my salary to make sure he handed it over.”

Scrambling to his feet, Ben took it from his colleague’s palm. Jagged lines, like the lines of a jigsaw, formed eight triangular shapes across the top of it. As he gently twisted it, the triangles snapped open. Ben sucked in a breath. Tucked within the box was a piece of paper, folded and yellowed. Fragile to simply look upon.

He smiled slyly, his eyes raking over it.

“I’d almost say it’s too good for my uncle,” he said.

Poe glared. He snatched the artefact back, snapping it closed.

“It's going to Skywalker.”

* * *

Luke stared at the map underneath his magnifying glass. The Cairo sun shone through the open windows, the chaotic sound of the market stalls down below distant.

“Official seal of Seti the First,” Luke said, muttering to himself as he collected the information inside his head. He passed the magnifying glass over the rest of the map. “Destination – City of the Dead.”

“Hamunaptra?” Poe choked on the word. “_The_ Hamunaptra?”

He looked like he’d been hit over the head with a mallet.

“I knew it was valuable, but…”

“Yes… Markets do often contain rather… fascinating artefacts...” Luke murmured. He held the map up to the light, still scanning it with his magnifying glass.

Stood opposite, Ben snatched the glass from him, glaring at his uncle.

“This map is three _thousand_ years old.”

“I’m aware,” Luke snapped, snatching back his glass. He set it down, carefully folding the paper closed. “I’ll submit this to the other curators. Perhaps it’ll have a place among our collection.”

“Perhaps? It leads to Hamunaptra, City of the Dead!” Ben slammed his hands against the desk, leaning forward. “Seti the First, second pharaoh of the tenth dynasty, wealthiest of all pharaohs buried his treasure in that city. That map—”

“Do _not_ suggest what you’re about to suggest, Ben,” Luke warned. He leaned back in his chair. He gestured to the books stacked beside him. “We are scholars. We study legends, we don’t chase them.”

“That’s precisely what’s wrong with us. Why do you think the museum is dying?” Luke turned pale at Ben’s words. He smirked. His uncle had taken great pains to hide the financial burdens felt by the museum, but he had grown careless of late. A few caught words here and there, and Ben had known enough.

“All we do is sit in our bubble and judge the events of the past,” Ben insisted. “But we wouldn’t have that privilege if all that the historians who came before us did was sit at their damn desks.”

Luke cleared his throat, beginning to shuffle papers. “I believe the Bembridge scholars rejected your application based on lack of practical experience. Didn’t they?”

“I am not a child, uncle, and you need not speak to me like one. Only children and tourists believe that stupid curse. The evil mummy, the great priest Imhotep. I don’t. What I believe is what I see there, on that map. Hamunaptra is real.”

“It has to be worth a look,” Poe said, stepping forward. His eyes flitted between Luke and Ben. “Just a few horses, men…”

Luke shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Many men have wasted their lives in the pursuit of the City of the Dead. Hamunaptra is a fairy tale. And it may have been your start, Ben, but it will not be your triumph. Believe me.”

* * *

Ben stared at the prison’s high doors before them. His brow sank into a frown, which he aimed squarely at his colleague.

“I've got a bad feeling about this.”

Poe ignored him. Beyond the doors, they both heard shouts and jeers and smelt the heavy scent of smoke mixed with dust. The guards held their rifles against their shoulders, eyes constantly moving, observing the sparse crowd that pressed past the doors.

One of the doors opened with a heavy clunk. The shouts got briefly louder, pleas in Arabic before the door shut again.

The proprietor of the prison was a tall man, with a wide gut and a flat nose. His dark eyes were lost among rolls of fat on his face. It was his guards, Ben knew, who did the work. Who ferried the prisoners, beat them and hung them.

With one fat finger, the proprietor beckoned them forward.

“My name is Unkar,” he said as he led them slowly through the prison doors. They walked a narrow corridor. Another set of doors, smaller than the first, met them. Unkar knocked twice. Keys turned in multiple locks, and the doors swung open. Unkar waddled forward. “Welcome, to Cairo prison.”

In the main commune of the prison, prisoners worked in lines. Some cooked, others did laundry. All of them were under the watchful eye of men dressed in browns and greens. A high gallows was set up in the centre of the commune, and above that, a viewing balcony.

“You see that we are a genial prison,” Unkar said with a genial laugh. He gestured up to the cells above. Bodies of men were squashed together behind iron rails, sweating in the midday heat. Poe looked away quickly, keeping his head down. “But you shall be meeting your prisoner in private. It is a courtesy.”

“How good of you,” Ben said dryly, glancing over a man stirring a large pot. Whatever he was cooking, it smelled rotten. Unkar snorted.

“It isn’t for you,” he said, leading them through a heavy metal door into a dimly-lit room.

It was a cell, with another metal door at the other end. The only light in the room came through the windows on the left-hand wall, the sunlight lined by the shadows of the prison bars. Apart from that, there was nothing in the room aside from the squeak of rodents. Unkar shut the door behind them. He called out in Arabic.

The door at the other end of the cell was kicked open. In came two guards. Between them, they carried a wildcat. She was a scrawny figure, all browns and yellows with pale skin kissed by the Cairo sun and marked by its sand and dirt. Scratches were on her cheek.

She yelled and protested, grunting as she tried to wriggle and twist her way out of the arms of the guards. They threw her down onto the floor of the cell. A rat crawled over her hand. She paid it no heed, clambering to her knees and staring up at Poe and Ben.

The first thing he noticed about her was that she was pretty. Pretty enough that if she dressed like the women back home, and carried herself like them, Ben thought, she’d be considered a beauty.

“What do you want?”

Ben blinked. The girl before him, a little over twenty-one, tilted her head. Her eyes were a dark shade, slightly bewitching. Black in the light of the cell.

“You’re English.”

He heard Poe poorly stifle a laugh.

“We, uh, we found a puzzle box… Someone told us we should ask you about it.” Poe had managed to find the vendor he’d purchased the box from, but on merely hearing the words ‘City of the Dead’, the man bolted, leaving his wares behind and only a name for them to chase.

Rey. Currently residing in the women’s block of Cairo’s largest prison. 

Looking at Poe, she sighed.

“Ducain?”

“How do you…?”

“He stole it from me.”

“Ah.”

For someone imprisoned, she was oddly at peace with it. As if she had let it become part of her everyday life. The only thing that had rankled her so far was confessing she’d been stolen from.

“Where did you find it?” Ben asked. The girl in question, Rey, the _wildcat_, blinked, turning her head towards him.

“No pleasantries? Just information about the City of the Dead.”

Ben stopped in his tracks.

“You’ve seen the map?”

“I’ve been there.”

She let her revelation hang in the silence between them.

“Let me make this clear,” Ben said, squaring his shoulders. He crouched down to reach her eye line, staring into her dark eyes. He was stony-faced, watching her eyes flit over him, scanning him. “I’m not looking for a bedtime story. I want to know how you got there.”

“_Please_,” Poe added. “I promise one of us is polite.”

Ben cleared his throat, squashing down a retort. It would just serve to satisfy Dameron, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. He continued watching Rey, how her eyes fell to the floor, studying the hay-strewn concrete. She seemed to be weighing things up in her mind.

“Fine,” she said, breaking her hard silence. “I’ll tell you. On one condition.”

She lifted her head, fixing him with a look of steel. She leaned closer. Her lips were parted in a harsh breath.

“You’re better off telling them girl,” snarled Unkar from his place by the cell door. He stepped forward. “The only way you’re getting out of here is by the gallows.”

Her eyes flicked towards Plutt, back to Ben. Reconsidering her situation. The corner of her mouth tilted with a smile.

Darting forward, she pressed her mouth to his.

“Guards!”

They wrenched her back, but all Ben saw was her growing grin and all he could feel was the remains of her lips on his.

Poe laughed.

“Never knew you were such a ladies man, Solo.”

Ben cleared his throat, standing.

“She wanted to annoy Plutt. It’s nothing.” Storming towards the cell door, he burst out onto another balcony, into a bowl of dust and iron bars, women screeching in their languages, as the guards dragged Rey down the long stairs of the prison, towards a large set of gallows.

Plutt was stood before the gallows, watching a guard prepare the hanging noose with a cold blankness.

Ben felt Poe come to stand beside him at the balcony’s rail. He swallowed.

“Guess she annoyed him a little too much.”


End file.
